


go to the edge sometime (prove your body wrong)

by callunavulgari



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, Hair Washing, Haircuts, Public Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 12:29:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3692325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek smirks at her, eyes hooded as he leans closer still, until his lips are brushing her ear. His breath fans hotly over the curve of her neck and Stiles shudders, knuckles going white as she clasps them together between her legs.</p><p>“Touch yourself,” he whispers, the curve of his lips a shade too wicked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	go to the edge sometime (prove your body wrong)

**Author's Note:**

> I finished this a few days ago but fell asleep immediately after and forgot about it. So uh, happy Easter, have some porn? Also, for those of you who don't know what it means to 'dead fish' someone, it's basically when someone goes in for a handshake and you just kind of go absolutely limp wristed and unresponsive. It's pretty unpleasant, like (hence the name) shaking hands with a dead fish.

“What do you mean she isn’t here?”  
  
The girl manning the front desk gives Stiles a sympathetic grimace. Her eyes dart from Stiles to the door, like she’s planning a dramatic escape. She wouldn’t get very far in those heels, but points for plotting out an escape plan anyway. Constant vigilance and all that.  
  
“Something came up.” The girl shrugs, tucking a lock of bright hair behind her ear. “Family emergency.”  
  
Stiles stares at her. Sure, it isn’t this girl’s fault that Nicole had some kind of family emergency, but why would no one call Stiles and tell her that the appointment was cancelled? That’s just poor management. “Yeah, but… I’ve had this appointment booked for like a week and a half.”  
  
The girl brightens suddenly, her spine straightening as her fingers dart to the keyboard in front of her. “Oh, that’s no problem at all,” she assures Stiles, eyes glued to the computer screen. “You’re already scheduled with another stylist.”  
  
Stiles groans and runs a hand through her snarled hair. She hadn’t bothered with more than a cursory brush-through when she’d woken at the crack of dawn this morning. Why would she worry about wasting time showering when Nicole was just going to wash it anyway?   
  
“But…”  
  
She bites down on her lip before the rest of the sentence can escape. Who cares that Nicole’s been doing Stiles’ hair since her mom died? No one, that’s who. And Stiles shouldn’t either. It’s just a hair cut. It’s not like it’ll kill her to get someone else to do it for a change.  
  
“Fine,” she sighs, shoulders thumping. She eyes the prim leather couch a few feet away and flicks her fingers in its direction. “I’ll just wait over there then.”  
  
Front desk girl plasters a huge grin across her face and nods. “I’ll make sure Derek knows you’ve arrived.”  
  
Stiles has been coming to Turning Heads since she was a kid, back when her mom used to drag her in for a bi-annual haircut. It got a little more fun when she was eight and her mom decided that she was old enough to get the full spa treatment. They’d giggled over the wedges between their toes and Stiles had squirmed in her seat the whole time, because while pedicures are fun in theory, they’re downright hell when you’re a kid with ADHD.   
  
Two years later when her mom had passed, she’d come in and demanded Nicole shave her head. That was the good thing about having a hairdresser that’s known you for years. They don’t ask questions. Still, when Stiles had come back half a year later, her hair a thumbnail longer than her pinky, Nicole had helped her decide on a cute pixie cut that she thought her mom might have liked.  
  
Nowadays, Stiles typically only comes in once a year. It’s been two this time, but she doesn’t care much for hair when it comes down to it. She likes the tradition more. Likes knowing that this is something she’ll always share with her mom.   
  
It’s gotten a remodel since the last time Stiles was here. The walls are a cool mint green instead of the gray-blue she’d seen last. There’s new furniture in the lobby and extra fancy abstract art on the walls. It still smells the same though, like shampoo and the chemical sharpness of nail polish.  
  
Stiles collapses onto the couch with a huff, belatedly remembering that she probably shouldn’t sprawl the way she wants to right now. Fucking skirts. Stiles can’t even remember the last time she wore one.  
  
She’s been hating Lydia with a passion all morning, from the moment she swanned into Stiles’ room and started pelting her with flowy blouses and gauzy skirts to wake her up. Apparently, she doesn’t trust Stiles to choose her own clothes.   
  
Stiles would understand if it was the actual wedding, she would. Stiles, Ms. McCall, and Lydia all have appointments for hair and makeup tomorrow, but according to Lydia, if Stiles didn’t get her mane under control _before_ the actual styling it would throw them completely off schedule. So Stiles is the lucky lady who gets to spend two whole days in a salon. Yay.  
  
Today though, It’s the _rehearsal_ dinner. Who even cares about what you wear to that? Stiles could come in sweats and a ratty sweater and Scott wouldn’t give two shits. Rehearsal dinner does not equate to skirts, makeup, and a borrowed pair of fuck-me pumps.   
  
Lydia gets what she wants though, especially when she’s the maid of honor.  
  
Annoyed, Stiles tucks her knees together.  
  
She’s half-heartedly flipping through a copy of People when she hears her name over Taylor Swift’s latest annoyingly catchy breakup hit.  
  
Her head raises reluctantly, and she… stares.  
  
Maybe it wasn’t cool of her to assume that this ‘Derek’ was an effeminate man with blonde highlights and trendy nose piercings, but to be fair, the only guys she’s ever seen here have been gayer than an entire pride parade.   
  
Derek doesn’t look very gay.   
  
Well, that’s not very fair either. He might like dick. Hell, might like pussy too, whatever. She’s not gonna judge. Just because Stiles is a walking talking stereotype with her copious amounts of plaid and worn men’s jeans doesn’t mean that every queer dude or lady is the same. People look at her and see a lesbian, not a bisexual chick with a natural born hatred for tight clothing. Maybe Derek’s the same.  
  
But seriously, that face. Those _thighs_. It should be illegal to wear jeans that tight. And it should _definitely_ be illegal for someone to fill out a henley that well, hot damn. Turning Heads, indeed.  
  
“Miss Stilinski?”  
  
Stiles blinks.   
  
Oh.   
  
Well _shit_ , that is one impressive bitch face.  
  
“That’s me,” she chirps, bouncing up off the couch. The fake smile stretching her lips wide probably makes her look like a crazy person, but she’s willing to bet that it won’t be the last time she embarrasses herself today. “Call me Stiles.”  
  
Derek gives her a look. Dubious, slightly suspicious. After a moment’s hesitation, he leans forward to shake her hand. “Derek Hale.”  
  
“Great,” Stiles squeaks, and promptly dead fishes him.   
  
He lets go of her hand pretty quickly. God, her face is on _fire_.  
  
This is going to be the most awkward hour of her life, she just knows it.  
  
.  
  
“So, are you gay?” she asks as Derek is sudsing her up. The ceiling is intensely interesting. Probably the most interesting thing ever. There’s a small brown spot directly overhead where the roof must have taken water damage at some point. Good thing it isn’t raining outside.  
  
His hands pause in the act of spreading the yummy smelling goop through her hair. It lasts maybe a second before he resumes, but it happened. She noticed.   
  
“Bisexual,” he answers flatly.   
  
_Not that it’s any of your business_ , she translates based on the tone of his voice.  
  
“Cool,” she says, nodding. “Me too.”  
  
Above her, Derek blinks. It’s hard to tell if he’s surprised or not, because, while his face is pretty, it has the emotional span of a teaspoon. He probably wins so hard at poker.  
  
“I mean, sorry.” She grimaces. “Not my business, my filter’s just been on vacation since 2004. Nicole’s used to it by now, so I guess you can blame her whenever she comes back.”  
  
Derek stays silent, methodically digging his fingers into her scalp. Mmm, hot damn. That’s the spot. She almost lets out a moan of disappointment when he reaches for the spray hose.   
  
Stiles decides to take that as a hint and closes her eyes before she says something equally mortifying. Maybe the next time she opens her mouth she’ll start blabbering about how she lost her virginity. Nobody wants that. Not Stiles, not Derek, not the lady three seats down, or the person washing her hair.  
  
Silence is golden.  
  
It’s not very hard to lose herself to the feel of his hands in her hair. On a normal day, you couldn’t pay her to sit still. But today, with Derek’s thumbs digging into nerve endings she didn’t even know she had, it isn’t difficult at all. The water is warm and Derek’s hands are god’s gift to man.  
  
It’s hard, but somehow she manages to bite her tongue on the desperate moans threatening to spill out of her mouth, and by the time Derek wraps a towel around her hair and pulls away, she’s positively boneless. Her whole body is tingly, muscles loose and relaxed. It’s better than a massage.  
  
“Mmm,” she sighs. “You have magic fingers.”  
  
Through slitted eyes, she watches Derek’s lips quirk at the corners. It’s the most expressive she’s seen him.  
  
“C’mon,” he tells her, guiding her up with gentle fingers splayed across her shoulder blades. “Let’s get you into my chair before you fall over.”  
  
She smiles at him and wonders if this is what sex is _supposed_ to be like. If so, damn. No wonder people go totally gaga over it. Endorphins, man.  
  
“So, what were you thinking about?” Derek asks her once they’ve somehow made it to the chair without Stiles melting into a puddle on the floor. Great, autopilot. Wonderful.  
  
Stiles shakes herself. “Huh?”  
  
He looks… almost amused.   
  
“Your hair,” he goes, gently. “What did you want to do with it?”  
  
She should have expected that question. By now, Nicole knows to just chop most of it off and make whatever’s left look pretty. Of course the new guy would need to know what she wants done with it.   
  
She eyes it speculatively in the mirror. With two years between cuts, it’s longer than she’s ever seen it, falling just past her breasts. It’s lank and listless, just hanging there. Stiles has been told a million times that she’s got great hair, but whatever. She usually just pulls it into a braid anyway, so who’s gonna care what it looks like. As long as it’s out of her way.  
  
This time though, she’s not sure what she wants. It’s as if the question itself has thrown off her entire groove.  
  
“Stiles?”  
  
She blinks and looks at Derek, who’s frowning down at her.   
  
In the end, she just shrugs. “I don’t care. I’ve got a wedding to go to tomorrow so just…” She waves a hand around her head. “Make it look pretty, I guess.”  
  
Derek nods, biting down on the corner of his lip in concentration as he circles her slowly, peering at her from different angles. “Anything I shouldn’t do?”  
  
She shakes her head and gestures dramatically in his direction. “Go crazy, this is your show now. Just don’t shave it, Lydia would kill me.”  
  
Derek freezes for a moment before reaching out to run his fingers through her hair, knuckles accidentally brushing up against her cheek. He doesn’t seem to notice, eyes narrowed in thought, but Stiles _definitely_ does, shivering as a bolt of liquid heat shoots straight down her spine.   
  
“Your fiancee?”  
  
Stiles frowns. “What?”  
  
Derek blinks back to himself, glancing at her in the mirror. “Lydia. Is she your fiancee?”  
  
Stiles stares at him, more confused now than she was before. Why would he—?  
  
Oh. _Oh_. The wedding!  
  
“Oh, no,” she rushes to assure him. “Definitely not, oh my god. Lydia is… a force of nature. I had a crush on her through grade school, but just.” She breaks off with a shudder. “ _No_. Our best friends are getting married. She’s the maid of honor, I’m the best man.”  
  
Derek quirks an eyebrow at her, shoulders slumping as a hint of tension seeps out of his frame. Stiles grins back. “Oh, don’t even give me that look. Ladies can totally be the best man. I will be the best best man, you just watch. My speech is a thing of beauty.”  
  
With a snort, Derek resumes petting her hair. “I’m sure it is.”  
  
Stiles narrows her eyes. “I don’t think I like your tone, mister.”  
  
Derek looks at her, a glint of what is definitely amusement in his eyes. He shrugs and picks up a pair of scissors. “Do you have it memorized yet?”  
  
Stiles puffs up. “Of course I do!”  
  
“Then I guess,” Derek tells her, pinning back a portion of her hair with a huge butterfly clip. His knuckles brush over her pulse. “You’ll just have to prove it to me.”  
  
.  
  
Derek applauds politely when she’s done with her speech.   
  
“A thing of beauty,” he deadpans, smirking at her through the mirror. “Your friend is lucky to have you.”  
  
Stiles preens for a moment, making as if to fluff her damp hair. She doesn’t know what Derek’s doing to it yet, but one side is most certainly shorter than the other.   
  
Derek snorts again and they lapse back into silence, Stiles watching lazily as he meticulously chops off long locks of her hair. She wrinkles her nose when a hunk of it lands on her hand, and carefully tucks both of them between her thighs beneath the weird poncho thing.   
  
She startles at the feel of bare skin. Right, she's wearing that skirt.  
  
Sighing, she closes her eyes.  
  
Derek’s hands are just as magical now as they were fifteen minutes ago. As much as Stiles loves Nicole, there’s no doubt in her mind that Derek is definitely the best she’s ever had. He’s _perfect_ , running careful fingers through her hair as he measures it out, never once yanking too hard. She’s never had a sensitive scalp, but god. Every touch feels like an electric shock of pure pleasure.  
  
Stiles squirms, clenching her legs together hard.  
  
She blinks, curiously rubbing them together, because she could have sworn—  
  
Oh god. She _is_. She’s practically _dripping_. How the holy hell did she miss that?  
  
Sure, Derek’s hot like burning, but he’s just _cutting her hair_. He isn’t touching her. Isn’t purring innuendos into her ear. He’s just… cutting her freaking hair.   
  
Now that she’s noticed though, every touch to her scalp is torture. Before, his hands felt phenomenal, but now... It’s like Derek’s hardwired a direct line from her hair follicles to her fucking vag and she just got the memo. Stiles’ cheeks are flushed, thighs sliding slickly together as she clenches them tighter.   
  
Mortified doesn’t even begin to cover it when Derek pauses and glances down at her, asking, “You okay?”  
  
She nods, jerkily. “Peachy.”  
  
Derek blinks at her for a moment, puzzled, then shrugs and goes back to what he was doing.  
  
She’s a shivery, over-sensitized mess for the next five minutes, squirming in her seat every time Derek touches her. She has never been so embarrassed in her life, what is wrong with her? Sure, it’s been awhile. It’s been… a long while, and her last orgasm with something that didn’t run off batteries hadn’t exactly been the best to go off of either, but she didn’t think she was this horny.  
  
But she is. She’s positively shaking with it.  
  
It all comes to a head when Derek’s leaning in close to get at her bangs, his face only a few inches away from hers. He’s close, as if he’s so caught up in her hair that he hasn’t realized just how low he’s stooping, and his wrist brushes her ear just right—  
  
She gasps, and his eyes snap to hers.  
  
They stare at each other, and she can see the moment that it hits him, his gaze flitting between her lips, her flushed cheeks, her lap, then back up. The tips of his ears go bright red. It would be adorable — hell, who is she kidding, it is adorable — if she wasn’t so horrified right now.  
  
She licks her lips nervously, and because she has a front row view right now, she can’t _not_ notice the way his eyes darken as they dart to follow the motion, suddenly all pupil.  
  
Oh.   
  
Oh _shit_.  
  
Derek wants to fuck her.   
  
He knows that she’s horny and she knows he’s horny, and oh god, there’s a little old lady with foil in her hair like five feet away. Were they flirting? Have they been flirting this whole time and she just hadn’t noticed until she’d fallen head first into the pool of aphrodisiacs that was Derek’s hands? Has Stiles been pulling his pigtails while he _literally_ pulled hers?  
  
She swallows, her chest heaving, and something like indecision flickers over Derek’s face.  
  
His eyes go to hers, then away, and back again. He scans the room quickly and then Derek—  
  
Derek smirks at her, eyes shuttered as he leans closer still, until his lips are brushing her ear. His breath fans hotly over the curve of her neck and Stiles shudders, knuckles going white as she clasps them together between her legs.  
  
“Touch yourself,” Derek whispers, the curve of his lips a shade too wicked.  
  
And then he goes right back to cutting her hair.  
  
Stiles stares at him in the mirror, her eyes wide. Her reflection looks wrecked, lips shiny and parted, cheeks flushed.  
  
She’s not this easy.  
  
She is _not_ this easy.  
  
...She is totally this easy.  
  
“If you fuck up my hair I am going to skin you in your sleep,” she hisses.  
  
Her life has become a porno. That is the only explanation, because despite this obvious outlier, her sex life is pathetically vanilla. She doesn’t frequent kink clubs — hell, she doesn’t really go to clubs anymore, _period_ — and while she has the libido of any healthy twenty-two year old girl, she doesn’t really do things like this.   
  
Stiles lost her virginity when she was seventeen to a friend at The Jungle, and since then, her experiences have been pretty lackluster. She dated around when she first started college, had one-night stands that made Scott give her the disappointed face when she inevitably stumbled back to their dorm the next morning, and had a friends with benefits arrangement with her chemistry partner in junior year.  
  
All of those were good, sure, but Stiles is woman enough to admit that she’s never scored someone who looks like Derek. He’s like… an eleven. At _least_. On a scale of one to ten. And here he is, looking at her like she’s a glass of cold water in the middle of the Sahara. He is actually waiting for her to get herself off in his place of work. Like, what?   
  
But this isn’t the kind of opportunity you pass up, and well, she is wearing the skirt. The horrible, horrible skirt that she might possibly need to thank Lydia for. And the weird poncho thing covers her from her neck to her knees, so it’s not like anyone will notice, right?  
  
Except Derek.   
  
Derek, who will notice, because he’s the one who _told_ her to—  
  
Oh god, her life _is_ a porno.  
  
Stiles feels heavy with nerves, jittery, as if she’s had too much coffee. Her fingers twitch sporadically against her thigh, her pinky accidentally dragging through the wetness slicking the inside of them.  
  
The breath that Stiles lets out is shaky as she slowly, tentatively, slips her hand up the inside of her thigh, the cool, flowy fabric of the skirt brushing against her wrist. The front of her panties are embarrassingly damp, and for a moment, she just cups herself, letting the heel of her palm pressed hard against her clit alleviate the worst of the ache.   
  
It feels good, like popsicles in the summertime or hot chocolate in the winter. Stiles’ hips twitch into the touch and she languishes like that, her eyes firmly shut as she relaxes into the feeling. Derek’s hands are still threading through her hair, taking longer, she suspects, to measure out each lock before she hears the snick of the scissors.   
  
That’s for her benefit, Stiles thinks, and opens her eyes.  
  
Derek’s chancing glances at her face in the mirror whenever he can, eyes darting from the hair in his hands to her flushed face every few seconds. There’s nothing as noticeable as a tremor in his hands, but she can tell that he’s affected. His crotch is hidden by her chair, but she thinks that if she let her elbow brush against the front of his pants, he’d be hard.  
  
As she watches, his eyes narrow, and she hisses as his wrist purposefully brushes against the top of her collarbone.  
  
“I think I told you to touch yourself,” he whispers, lips right next to her ear again.  
  
She narrows her eyes right back. Fine, if he wants a challenge, she’ll give him one.  
  
Normally, Stiles is the kind of girl who appreciates clit play first and foremost. When she’s touching herself in the privacy of her own room, she’ll take herself to pieces before she even has to break down and slip a finger or two inside.   
  
Today though, she wants something inside her. She wants _Derek_ inside her. His magic fingers, his tongue, his cock. Anything. But instead she has this — her own fingers hidden beneath some shitty salon drapery — and she’ll be damned if she doesn’t make the most of it.  
  
She parts her legs, just a bit, just enough, and carefully tugs her panties to one side as she slips two fingers inside herself. She shudders, toes curling in the sensible flats that Lydia had eventually consented to, and wants to arch off the chair.  
  
“That’s right,” Derek coaxes, one hand stroking down the slope of her shoulder.   
  
Clenching her eyes shut, she gets to work, fingering herself open lazily and curling her fingers until she finds the right spot. Only then does she press against her clit with the edge of her thumb.   
  
Stiles has always liked touching herself. She doesn’t know where people got the idea that guys masturbate more than girls, because when she was a teenager, you’d be hard pressed to find a day of the week where she _wasn’t_. Learning what she liked and didn’t like was just some new puzzle to solve and she spent a lot of time figuring herself out.  
  
She uses that now, angling her fingers deeper as Derek sets down the scissors and pulls out a blow dryer. The heat of it is glorious, as is the feeling of Derek’s hand wrapping around the nape of her neck. He kneads the skin there, and she chances a glance over towards the mirror.   
  
His cheeks are flushed and even from here she can see that his pupils are blown, hips practically melded to the back of her chair.  
  
“Do you want me to come for you?” she asks breathlessly, voice little more than a whisper. Over the noise of the hair dryer, it’s practically nothing, but he hears it, fingers digging indents in her skin. She chuckles, eyelashes fluttering as she tips her head back, into his grip. “I could, you know. Right this second.”  
  
His breath hitches. In the mirror, his lips shape the words, _Do it_.  
  
Stiles comes so hard that she sees stars, teeth digging into her lower lip until she tastes blood on her tongue. But she stayed quiet. She came her fucking brains out and has probably given Derek the _worst_ case of blue balls ever, but she didn’t embarrass herself in front of an entire salon. Mission accomplished.  
  
She slumps in her seat, relishing the darkness behind her eyelids as her body cools down, and stays like that until the hair dryer turns off.  
  
Derek is staring at her when she blinks her eyes open. To his credit, he doesn’t look frustrated. He actually looks… kind of awed, maybe a little bit affectionate as he jerks his head towards the mirror.  
  
Oh right, hair cut. The great reveal.   
  
She thinks that he probably could have given her a mullet and she’d still count this day as a win.  
  
He’s cut her hair to just beneath her chin in some kind of cute bob, and she doesn’t know much about hairstyles, but it works. It looks great on her, it’s different enough that it’ll please Lydia, and it’s still short enough that it’ll be out of her way.  
  
“You’re perfect,” she tells him dreamily, and Derek laughs, ducking his head bashfully as he reaches to help her up out of the chair. Good thing too, because her legs feel like spaghetti noodles.  
  
It’s only as they’re approaching the front desk that Stiles realizes that this is it. She probably won’t see Derek again until her next haircut and even then, what? Ditch Nicole as her regular hairdresser and just have hella kinky fingertime with herself while Derek cuts her hair? No. Fuck that. She wants to see him naked and spread out across her sheets, wants to ride him until neither of them can move, or maybe even fuck him against the wall of her apartment complex. Fuck, at this point she’ll take anything.  
  
The front desk girl is missing when they get there, which means that it’s Derek who cashes her out, smiling charmingly when she tips very generously.  
  
He’s giving her this look, reluctant and amused and affectionate all at once, like he doesn’t want her to leave either, and Stiles _wants_.  
  
 _All right, Stilinski_ , she tells herself. _Time to put on your big girl panties._  
  
So she slides around to the other side of the desk, plucks a pen out of a nearby flowery mug, and writes her number on his wrist. She taps it with her thumbnail when she’s done, smiling up at him.   
  
“Just in case you weren’t doing that for an extra tip,” she teases. “That’s my number. The rehearsal dinner is over at eight, so if you want me to return the favor, give me a call. Hell, if you play your cards right, I _might_ even let you be my plus one tomorrow.”  
  
And with that, she gives Derek a saucy wink and sashays the fuck out of there.  
  
Like a boss.  
  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] go to the edge sometime (prove your body wrong)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6321292) by [callunavulgari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari), [reena_jenkins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reena_jenkins/pseuds/reena_jenkins)




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